


Back to the Future Part... Murder

by InsaneTrollLogic



Category: Psych
Genre: Gen, Plotty, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneTrollLogic/pseuds/InsaneTrollLogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While the SBPD tries to piece together a twenty year old cycle of murders, Shawn Spencer finds himself thrown back to 1989, as the killer surfaces for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ, completed 8/8/2010

He didn’t remember how he got here.  
  
He found himself shaking, full blown tremors of fear. He was Shawn Spencer. He remembered everything that ever happened to him. His mind was a junk drawer of useless facts and razor sharp deduction. He remembered everything.  
  
Except how he got here and where here actually was.  
  
The blood seeped slowly out of his knife wound and onto the pavement.  
  


***

  
  
The calls started at ten. They first arrived at the office of Psych. Then to the cell phone of Shawn Spencer which sat, forgotten, on top of the refrigerator. Then finally to Burton Guster’s phone. Gus had six missed calls in the space it had taken him to drive from his apartment to Central Coast Pharmaceuticals. By the time he checked in with the secretary and showed his face to Ogletree, the missed called count was up to eleven. Frowning, he sat at his desk and dialed voicemail. Chief Karen Vick’s voice rang out loud and clear over the line. “I don’t know where you and Mr. Spencer are but you need to drop what you’re doing and get to the station NOW.”  
  
More then a little panicked, Gus hung up and dialed Shawn’s number.  
  
Straight to voice mail.  
  
 _Let’s be honest, we all know I’m not going to check voice mail in the next month so how about you save me some annoying beep tones and try again later. Or text. Or better yet, call Gus._  
  
He shook his head. Great, the last thing he wanted to do was serve as Shawn’s answering service. Again.   
  
At least he hadn’t given his number this time.  
  
He made it to the station just after noon, expecting to find Shawn already there, bobbing around the detectives and making a nuisance of himself. “Mr. Guster,” Chief Vick’s voice rang out through the station. “How many times have I told you that you need to answer your phone when we call. There’s been a development. Where is Mr. Spencer?”  
  
Gus turned around to check behind him, half expecting Shawn to leap out, and scaring the living daylights out of them both. But the station seemed almost unnaturally quiet. “I haven’t seen him,” Gus answered. Vick gave him a moderately disbelieving look. “What? It’s not like we’re attached at the hip.”  
  
Vick shook her head. “When was the last time you did see Mr. Spencer?”  
  
“Haven’t seen him for more then a day.”   
  
Rubbing, her forehead, Vick said, “Then, Mr. Guster, I believe we have a very big problem.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Mr. Guster, perhaps it would be wise for you to go back to work. I can have a officer assigned to trail you through the day. I promise it won’t be the least bit intrusive.”  
  
“I’m not going anywhere. Tell me what happened. Shawn’s not the only investigator on this team you know.”  
  
Chief Vick hesitated for just a second before relenting and gesturing to her office, shutting the door behind her and drawing the blinds. Detective Lassiter stood up abruptly. “Chief, are you serious? This is a police matter. We cannot put up with the psychic tomfoolery. It’s—where’s Spencer?”  
  
“Hello to you too,” Gus replied acidly, taking a seat across from the Chief’s desk.   
  
“Mr. Guster has informed me that he has been unable to contact his partner.”  
  
“That’s brilliant. Maybe for once we can get this investigation underway without it turning into a circus.”  
  
Gus turned to look at Lassiter, ready to protest on behalf of his friend but his words caught in his throat. “Lassie, what happened to your face?”  
  
A dark bruise spanned the pale skin of his cheek. Looking at it, he almost missed the intense annoyance as Lassiter protested, “I don’t see how this has anything to do with him!”  
  
“Detective Lassiter, I believe it is  _my job_ to determine who this effects. Now I know you’re worried about your partner but...”  
  
“Juliet? What happened to Juliet?”  
  
“Detective O’Hara was hospitalized this morning after she was attacked coming out of her apartment. She was stabbing in the shoulder and sustained significant muscle damage to the limb. She is going to need some major rehabilitation but she is in stable condition. However this puts us in a precarious situation considering two or my detectives were attacked in the past eight hours. We are obviously in a pressure situation and we have no leads. Neither Detective Lassiter nor Detective O’Hara saw who attacked them.”  
  
“One unconscious, one injured,” Lassiter mumbled. “One missing found dead.”  
  
“Care to share with the rest of us, Detective Lassiter?”  
  
“This sounds familiar,” Lassiter said, his voice raising in volume.  
  
“That must be a hell of a concussion because I’ve never heard of anything like this.”  
  
“That’s because it hasn’t happened in years. But there was a case like this, must have been more then twenty years ago. They never solved it but it was the thing that got me interested in being a cop.”  
  
“What’s this have to do with anything.”  
  
“Twenty years ago. There was a case just like it in Santa Barbara. A year before that it happened in Phoenix Arizona. The year after in Washington DC. First the local police station was hit. One detective unconscious. Another maimed in some way so as to severely damage limb. A third missing whose body would turn up years later. It was a warning to the police station, preceding a major attack. It happened long enough and far enough apart that the feds didn’t pick up on it for almost five years whereupon the pattern stopped completely.”  
  
“But you and Juliet are the only two. If there is a pattern it doesn’t fit.”  
  
Both Lassiter and Vick fell silent. Gus looked from one to the other wondering what he missed. “Guster,” Lassiter asked finally. “Exactly when and where did you last see Shawn Spencer?”  
  
“Just because I haven’t seen Shawn doesn’t mean he’s not around.”  
  
“I know Spencer,” Lassiter insisted. “He is not the kind of person who thrives stalking in the shadows.”  
  
“When he was eighteen, he disappeared after graduation and the first postcard didn’t show up for a full year. I didn’t see him for months. Just last week he decided he needed to blow off some steam and took off on his motorcycle. Just because Shawn isn’t around doesn’t mean this guy grabbed him.”  
  
“No,” Vick agreed. “But we do have to adjust for the possibility. Lassiter, I want you to pull up all the old case files you can. Get McNab to help you. Guster, see if you can get in touch with Henry Spencer and let me know the second our erstwhile psychic makes contact with you.”   
  
Lassiter sprung into action, moving with surprising gracefulness for someone who had supposedly been rendered unconscious only a few hours before. Gus however found himself rooted to his seat, unable to move.  
  
“Gus,” Chief Vick said, her voice softer then he’d ever heard it. “I’m sure Shawn is going to be just fine.”  
  


***

  
  
The sun’s rays flickered out over the horizon, the boardwalk still mostly empty save a few lonely joggers in ridiculous shorts. The moustaches along were enough to make Shawn want to puke.  
  
Or that could have been the blood loss talking.  
  
He didn’t know much, just that he needed to get to Psych. He needed to get to Gus. He could be next. He had to warn him.  
  
If he found Gus everything was going to be all right.  
  
He stumbled forward, stretching out a hand toward the door. Toward the window pane that should read PSYCH: Private Psychic Detectives but instead reads FOR RENT. He blinked in confusion, taking in the surroundings. The location was right. He’d walked it thousands of times. Forty minutes and the street venders would start walking, peddling peanuts and popsicles. An hour and forty minutes and Gus would sneak out of his other job and slid into Psych’s offices before Shawn even managed to drag himself out of bed. It happened all the time. Shawn could predict it down to the second like the psychic he pretended to be.  
  
But this wasn’t Psych.  
  
He tried the doorknob only to find it lock. He squinted through the windows. They’d been robbed. His desk was gone. The fridge was gone.  
  
They’d stolen his pineapple.  
  
He put a hand to the glass, to try to get a closer work but his eyes weren’t working right. There were odd splotches of black spotting his vision and his hand left an ugly streak of red trailing down the window pane. “Oh,” Shawn said faintly, the connection swimming amidst the explosion of his dying brain.   
  
 _This isn’t Psych._


	2. Chapter 2

He could hear beeping--which meant he probably wasn’t dead. Unless lying on his back in the dark listening to an oddly regular beeping was what happened in Hell. Actually, Shawn thought that sounded quite a bit like his idea of hell. Endless boredom. No movies. No cases. No Gus, Lassie or Juliet.  
  
Beeps at regular intervals, separated by a little less then a second, slowly speeding up... Hospital. Which meant that the odd itching in his arm must be an IV and the thing in his mouth’s probably some sort of feeding tube.  
  
He opened his eye, attempting to form words but the tube in his mouth prevents him from making anything but a choking sound. He panicked. He didn’t know who he was when he couldn’t talk. Outside Gus, the sound of his own voice had been his only constant companion.  
  
Dimly, he took note of the nurse coming into the room. She was blond and round and his mind put together a billion little details about her person before he could stop it.  _Motheroftwodogpersonwearingherbackupuniform..._  
  
“Calm down, Mr. Savage,” she said, trying to be calming. “It’s safe. You’re going to be all right.”  
  
 _Is it safe?_  Laurence Olivier asked Dustan Hoffman in the depths of his mind and he didn’t like at all that his brain jumped straight to Marathon Man. _Where’s Gus?_ He tried to ask.  _Where’s Gus, where’s Psych?_  
  
“Detective Savage, you’re in the hospital. Calm down.”  
  
 _What hospital?_  He tried to ask.  _Gus! GUS!_  
  
He moved his lips but no sound came out. Another person entered the room. A doctor this time,  _Is it safe?_  “Mr. Savage?” the doctor said. “Detective Savage? Can you hear me? I need you to calm down. You were involved in an incident.”  
  
Stabbed. He was stabbed and he left a handprint of blood sliding down the window pane of the office that wasn’t Psych. He nodded. He understood. He felt foggy. They had him on painkillers but Shawn couldn’t ever keep the omnipresent voice of reason silent in his head. It cut through the fog, sobering in its force.  
  
 _Detective Savage?_  it said.  
  


***

  
  
Gus sat at Juliet’s bedside. She was awake, sitting upright with her shoulder bound in a sling so as not to disturb the stab wound.  
  
Juliet had let him see the charts. He knew the prognosis wasn’t good. Best case scenario was sixty to seventy percent recovered mobility. Worst case scenario was a completely dead limb. Juliet didn’t seem to be letting it bother her as she pawed through the case file Gus had brought with him. “If Lassiter is right and this is the same guy, I think we’re in some major trouble.”  
  
“And if Lassiter’s not right?”  
  
She didn’t answer him, reaching over with her off hand to turn the page. There was an IV in her wrist. She was scheduled for a second surgery in two hours. Gus suspected work was a coping mechanism, suspected the injury would confine her to a desk for the duration of her career. “Check this out,” she said, handing Gus the file. “Detective Shawn Savage from Arizona. First guy to go missing. Never officially said he resurfaced but there’s also something about a Detective Savage in Santa Barbara.” She squinted at the page. “Looks like he disappeared as well.”  
  
“You think they’re the same guy?”  
  
“I think it’s worth a call to Lassiter.”  
  


***

  
  
“Shawn?” the voice said.  
  
“Dad?” Shawn whispered. His eyes were heavy, almost glued shut. His midsection ached and his throat felt scratchy but the foggy numbness of the painkillers had lifted somewhat. “Dad, what happened? Where’s---“  
  
“I don’t know who you’re looking for, Detective Savage, but I am not your father.”  
  
Impossible. He knew that voice. Would have known that voice even if it hadn’t haunted his childhood demanding,  _how many hats?_  
  
He cracked open his eye. Jesus, no hat, but that was a hell of a toupee. “Jesus, Dad, I thought we agreed hair plugs or nothing. You look like you have a rat on your scalp.”  
  
“Not that I don’t appreciate the color commentary detective, I would like to remind you that you were the victim of a planned attack and I need to take a statement.”  
  
His dad, and it was his dad, looked surprisingly young with hair that at a second glance was probably not a toupee wearing his police blues even though he retired years before this. “Seriously though,” Shawn asked. “What’s with the costume party?”  
  
“Look, you’re obviously delirious. I’m going to go get the doctor and I’ll come back and take your statement later.”  
  
“I got stabbed,” Shawn said. And his dad—no, Detective Henry Spencer of the SBPD—turned around.   
  
“Yes,” Henry said. “Yes, you did. The knife punctured your lung. You were lucky to make it to the hospital let alone wake back up.”  
  
“That explains why my insides are on fire.”  
  
Henry let out a dry laugh and the feeling of doom solidified around Shawn’s stab wound. His dad never laughed at his jokes. It had to be at least 80% stab wound sympathy. Maybe 90%.  
  
“I’m a little fuzzy on the details of how I got here,” Shawn hedged, hating every word of it. “Not to mention where here is or when it is...”  _or why you keep calling me detective Savage._  
  
“You’re in Santa Barbara,” Henry answered. “You get some rest. You’re in no condition to be talking to anyone right now. Get some rest. I’ll be back in a few hours.”  
  
He left the room but Shawn didn’t feel like resting. By his count it had been at least a day since he was on his feet and that was more then his rest quota for a usual week. He sat up, ignoring the protest from his stitches and the aching in his lungs. There was a bag of personal effects at his bedside. He expected the clothes would be impounded as evidence. But there had to be something, in his pockets that could have accounted for where he was and more importantly where Gus was.  
  
The bag in fact only held three items. Two shoes and a small black wallet. He opened the wallet in slow confusion. He didn’t have a wallet and the only form of identification he carried was the laminated SBPD badge he’d been given as a joke.  
  
But it wasn’t a wallet.   
  
It was a badge.  
  
The bottom fell out of his world.  
  
A badge that had been issued to Detective Shawn Savage of the Phoenix Police Department in 1987. An ID card with his own face smiling up at him. He squeezed his eyes shut but when he opened them again the badge was still there.  
  


***

  
  
“I’m sure Shawn’s fine,” Henry Spencer said gruffly. “He just got paid. He probably opted for a week in Malibu rather then Santa Barbara. Mark my words, Shawn’s going to be back.”  
  
“We heard the same thing from Mr. Guster,” Chief Vick said amiably. “That’s actually not why I wanted to talk to you. Do you remember a case twenty years ago I think we called it the three strike case.”  
  
“The one with the cop attacks.”   
  
“You worked on it more then I did.”  
  
“Henry, cut the modesty act. I was a working the streets at the time and you were one of the most respected officers on the force. Everyone knew you were the best damn detective in the place and the only reason you didn’t make it official was that you wanted to be around for your kid. You did a preliminary interview with a Detective Shawn Savage.”  
  
“Yeah, I think I remember something like that.”  
  
“Detective O’Hara was looking through some old cases and came up with the name. Savage was the only name ever connected to two different Three Strike cases.”  
  
“I’m sure all my notes are complete.”  
  
“I don’t want notes. I want your gut feeling about this guy.”  
  
Henry leaned back, crossed his arms. “Honestly, he pissed me off.”  
  


***

  
  
“I don’t remember much,” Shawn recited listlessly for what must have been the hundredth time. It never got easier to say. “Look I was one place and then I was here and whatever happened in between really kind of worked. Did you see the stab wound?”  
  
“Detective Savage.”  
  
“Shawn,” he corrected.  
  
“Detective Savage,” repeated Henry Spencer. “From what I understand, you left the Phoenix police department on a transfer and disappeared somewhere in transit.”  
  
“If that’s what your piece of paper says, I’m guessing that’s what happened.”  
  
“That was a week ago.”  
  
“Affirmative.”  
  
“And you don’t remember anything.”  
  
“If I did, don’t you think I would have said something? I get stabbed and when I wake up, suddenly I’m Sam Tyler.” He hesitated. “Sam Beckett? Sam Winchester? Wow what is it with that name?”  
  
“Look, Detective Savage, I don’t have the slightest clue what you’re saying.”  
  
“I want to see the case file,” Shawn demanded.  
  
“I’m sorry?”  
  
“You heard me. I want to see what you’ve had written down in your little file regarding me and my transfer,  _officer Spencer_. Maybe it might jog my memory.”  
  
He could see his dad bristle and he drank in the sight with a sort of vindictive pleasure. “I think I have enough for the moment. They may send in Detective Sparks to follow up sometime later but he’s busy at the moment. Thank you for your time.”  
  
Wow, a  _thank you for your time_ , that sounded an awful lot like  _shove it, asshole_. He’d wondered where his dad perfected that particular skill, had always liked to think he’d had a hand in its development.  
  
His dad left with the same bristled air of annoyance, leaving Shawn to the maddening noise of the heart monitor. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling where there were seventy-two tiles and prayed to God that this was  _Back to the Future_ and not  _Terminator_.  
  


***

  
  
The call came in while Juliet was under for surgery. Gus sat in the waiting room, half asleep after the frantic exhaustion from the case. He’d been banned from the police headquarters, Lassiter saying that his pacing made everyone more nervous then necessary.  
  
When he fumbled his cell out of his pocket and down to the ground before managing to answer it, he can’t help but see Lassiter’s point. “Burton Guster,” he answered, trying to sound suave.  
  
“Guster,” Lassiter barked. “We’re in the alley outside Psych. You need to get here as soon as you can.”  
  
“What happen? Did you find Shawn?”  
  
“Just get here, Guster.”  
  


***

  
  
They let him out of the hospital after ten days. Shawn suspected they, medically speaking, would have preferred to have liked to keep him under observation for a few more but an inactive Shawn was a dangerous Shawn and the medical staff seemed to have noticed.  
  
Santa Barbara in 1989 really wasn’t much different then it was in 2010. Except for being twenty years out of time, Shawn might have almost found it comforting. But the fact remained that he was twenty years out of time and his brain hadn’t stopped freaking out as it tried to find a logical reason as to why.  
  
The best he can come up with was not a comforting notion in the slightest.  
  
He must be dead. If this was a case for Psych, he would already be betting on that being his answer. He had examined all the evidence—the stab wound, the collapsed lung and reached the only logical conclusion.   
  
He had died the front door of Psych, his bloodied handprint streaked against the window pane.  
  
He took a deep breath, drinking in the pain in his lungs. He might have died twenty years in the future, but right here, right now, he was alive.  
  
Which meant there was something he could do to fix this.


	3. Chapter 3

He slept on the beach for six nights, hunting for spare change in the sand so he could by disinfectant to use in washing the sand out of his stab wound. Nothing changed so he upgraded his estimated status from dead to limbo and walked into the Santa Barbara Police Department.  
  
Ten minutes later he found himself standing in front of chief Vick, twenty years younger then the one he was used to and, he’s ashamed to admit it, smoking hot on the Juliet O’Hara level.  
  
Juliet O’Hara who must be about eight years old right now.   
  
Sometimes, Shawn really hated his life.  
  
“Detective Savage,” Vick greeted him. “I was under the impression you were indisposed.”  
  
He didn’t know why he was surprised that past Vick was still a hard ass. It had been kind of a big deal to be a women in policing in the late 80s in a way it just wasn’t in 2010, so for every ounce of person, Vick probably had to be twice as fast and twice as smart to get by.  
  
“Yes,” he answered. “But as it turns out, it’s hard to relax when the person who stabbed and nearly killed you is still out there one the prowl, probably waiting for the possibility of more stabbing and more killing.”  
  
“Not that I don’t appreciate a good hyperbole, Detective, but I assure you your case is being handled. You’re on mandated medical leave.”  
  
He raised his hand to his temple almost without thought. “Karen, I’m sensing that you could really use my input on this.”  
  
Vick’s eyes narrowed and if anything it was even more intimidating in her younger frame. This was a women who could kill him with her pinky. “And I’m sensing that if you don’t get out of my face and back onto your  _mandatory medical leave._ ”  
  
God help him it was sexy as hell.  
  
“Savage?”  
  
“Who now?”   
  
“Get away from my desk.”  
  


***

  
  
The smell of dried blood hit him hard.   
  
“McNab, get him out of here!” Lassiter growled. “He doesn’t need to see this. Gus, I’ll meet you in the office.”  
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gus said even as his stomach tied itself in knots.  
  
McNab had a hand on his shoulder, floundering between the two orders.   
  
In a rare moment of bravery, Gus turned to look at him and very clearly said, “If you try to take me out of here, I will punch you in the spleen. And I really don’t want to get arrested for assaulting an officer.”  
  
He shrugged off the arm on his shoulder and stalked over to Lassiter.  _What would Shawn do?_  he asked himself.  _Think of this like any other crime scene, you’ve watched him work. You can make the connections._  “Tell me what happened.”  
  
Lassiter scrunched up his face, like he wanted to throw Gus out after all but he’d always been more tolerant of Gus then Shawn and despite everything, Gus liked to think he cared about friendships. His face relented. “Blood splatter guys said he put up a fight. Minor wounds at first as he tried to get away from his attacker before then landed a major blow and then...”  
  
Gus’s eyes found the large red stain on the pavement. Dried blood. Shawn’s blood.  
  
“Then he fell.”  
  
Gus swallowed. “That’s Shawn’s blood.”  
  
“Guster, we don’t have confirmation yet, but for the moment, we can only assume that Spencer was our victim. I’m going to need you to think about your recent cases, anyone who might have had a reason to want to hurt Spencer.”  
  
“That’s a lot of blood, Lassiter.”  
  
Shawn had broken his nose when they were both thirteen, stepped to close to someone swinging a baseball bad and caught it just the wrong way. Shawn had blinked bearily and fallen to his knees, hand cupped under his nostrils to catch the drip. The blood had filled up his palm, falling down in to the grass, ruby red sparkling amidst the green. Gus had passed out.  
  
There was a lot more blood then this.  
  
“Nothing’s been confirmed, Guster. This could belong to anyone. Don’t assume the worst.”  
  
“And what is the worst, Lassiter?”  
  
The detective hesitated for a moment and said, “With the amount of blood here, the worst case is pretty bad.”  
  
Gus pressed his eyes shut. “You think he’s dead.”  
  
Lassiter’s silence was more then answer enough.   
  
It was almost unthinkable. If it were true Gus knew his very person was going to unravel. They’d been ShawnandGus for so long he wasn’t sure he knew how to be anything else. But he couldn’t believe it. Not yet. He had to get to the bottom of this. Had to do Shawn’s job.   
  
He looked at the crime scene again, the splotches of red where Shawn had fallen. There was a disconnect here. He could tell. “Where’s the body?” he asked.  
  
“There is no body,” Lassiter answered. “It’s the only sign of hope we had.”  
  
“But there aren’t any drag marks. If someone moved it, there would be some kind of trail, right? This is just like the body fell and then...”  
  
“Then it disappeared,” Lassiter finished.  
  


***

  
  
Shawn heard about the attacks third hand. It wasn’t publicized and he doubted anyone but him made the connection. But there were two of them. The first a cop found unconscious but unarmed after he left a bar in the early hours of the night. The second a patrol man who’d pulled over a white sedan only to get jumped, his knee taken out so badly he might never walk again. The car that was originally pulled over had been a stolen vehicle.   
  
Seeing it, Shawn felt a familiar tingle in his spine. The connections, the puzzle taking shape in front of him. Vick and his father had both sent him away when he tried to talk to them at the station. He wondered what it said about him that the police regarded him as more useful as a psychic then a detective.   
  
He spent the night at a local bar, sitting in on a poker game so he could win enough money to afford a hotel room for a few days. The police were mounting some kind of operation. He could see it from the outskirts but couldn’t quite integrate himself like he was used to.   
  
He’d never quite fit in with normal people in the future. Putting him in out of time took him out of his element. He didn’t realize how many of his references were from the 90s until no one understood what he was saying.  
  
He was floundering. He needed Gus, needed someone to make him focus. He needed to research and that was something he could admit he was terrible at.  
  
He came across Lassiter by complete accident.  
  
The Carlton Lassiter of 1989 was one of the most surreal visions of Shawn’s life. He was nineteen years old, a tall, gangly kid wearing a pair of bleached jeans and a black t-shirt. His hair was longer then Shawn was used to, the smile seemed more genuine.  
  
Shawn almost didn’t recognize him. He didn’t walk like a cop, didn’t move like Lassiter and was missing the crooked slant to his nose and it threw Shawn more then he thought was possible. He’d had Lassiter pegged as the kid who went around on his tricycle arresting the other sticky little monsters to crimes related to being sticky little monsters. But Lassiter was a college kid now, an engineer if the book peaking out of his bag was any indication.  
  
He crossed the street to catch up with him before he consciously made the decision to move. “Lassie!” he called.  
  
The sudden hunch to his shoulders told Shawn that he’d been heard but Lassiter himself gave no further outward reaction. Shawn jogged across the street just in time to catch Lassiter by the shoulder. “Seriously, Lassie, wait up.”  
  
As he spun around, Shawn got a hint of pure Lassiter in the kid’s eyes, the flinty, badass, don’t mess with the head detective look that Shawn had directed at him at least once a week. It was the first time Shawn felt like he had his feet on the ground. It took everything in him to keep from pulling Lassiter into a hug. “Wow, Lassie, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you.”  
  
“I don’t know you,” Lassiter said tersely. “Get your hand off of me.”  
  
Even the order was familiar and Shawn dropped his hand, smile still plastered on his face. “If I didn’t know you, how did I know your name?”  
  
“My name is not Lassie.”  
  
“It’s a nickname. A sign of affection people give to their friends.”  
  
“It’s a dog’s name.”  
  
“If you think about it, would you really prefer Carlton? Maybe we can try Carly? Lassitude?”  
  
He had Lassiter’s full attention now and he loved it. He’d always loved it. Loved it from the first second he’d taken a deep breath and proclaimed,  _The truth is, I’m a psychic_  and the look on Lassiter’s face had called  _bullshit_. “Are you following me? Who the hell do you think you are?”  
  
An outrageous lie started to spring to his lips before he realized he had actual legitimate credibility at his fingertips. Legitimacy that might actually border on truth. He fumbled the badge out of his pocket. “Detective Savage,” he said, stumbling over the words like he never did when Gus was at his side.   
  
Lassiter narrowed his eyes, taking the badge in his hands, examining it critically. “I have a hard time believing they’d let someone like you be a cop let alone a detective.”  
  
“I’m having a hard time not being offended by that.”  
  
“Something tells me you’re almost impossible to offend.” Lassiter handed the badge back to him. Somehow, in all his years at Psych he’d never felt like more of a fraud then he did right now.  
  
“See,” Shawn said, just a little thickly. “Look at that. We’re already getting to know each other.”  
  
“What do you want, Savage?” Lassiter demanded. The name sounded ridiculous, almost like Lassiter was calling him a lower-case savage.  
  
“It’s Shawn,” he corrected absently.  
  
“And why would I possibly care what your name is?”  
  
“Because I need your help.” Shawn smirked. “Tell me, Carlton, are you a fan of solving crime?”  
  
Lassiter didn’t answer. He just rolled his eyes and walked away without another word.  
  
“That’s all right!” Shawn called after him. “We’re going to pick this up later.”  
  


***

  
  
“Maybe we were wrong,” Gus said. “Maybe it wasn’t the same guy.”  
  
Lassiter rubbed a had against his forehead. “It was the same guy.”  
  
“So what, you’re a psychic now?”  
  
“Don’t even joke about that,” Lassiter snapped a second later he quieted. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. My partner’s in the hospital. I’m tired and I’m sick at doing nothing but looking at this guy’s past hatchet jobs. There should have  _been_ something by now.”  
  
“Juliet’s gong to be all right,” Gus answered. He shuffled through the folders in front of him. It was a testament to Lassiter’s worry that he was even letting Gus touch his case and Gus knew it. “And mark my words, we’re going to find a lead.”  
  
“Go home, Guster,” Lassiter ordered. “You’re no good to anyone when you’re exhausted.”  
  
“I’m not—”  
  
“Go home,” Lassiter repeated. “You’re not helping your friend like this.”  
  
Gus felt his shoulders sag as he acknowledged the truth in Lassiter’s words. “I’m going to go to the hospital. Check in on Juliet.” Lassiter looked up to him and he hastily added. “I’ll call you with an update. Promise.”  
  
He started walking out of the station. But stopped right outside as a white board caught his eyes. It was detailing a robbery cases, different targets circled from all around town. Gus turned to look at it, the vaguely Shawn-ish part of his brain screaming at him that something was off.   
  
“Lassiter,” he called. “Come take a look at this.”  
  
There were three locations circled on the map in a red pen while everything else had been down with a push pin. The date on each and every one of them was the same. Was a date that hadn’t happened yet.  
  
“He’s calling his shot,” Lassiter breathed.   
  
“He’s calling three shots.”  
  
“He’s only going to go with one. That’s how he works.”  
  
“And what about Shawn. The one that goes missing. How does it end for him?”  
  
Lassiter closed off his face, refusing to look Gus in the eyes. “Either we find him... or we don’t.”


	4. Chapter 4

There was a witness.  
  
It took Shawn six phone calls, two fake names, a badge number and a story about a leprechaun, a piñata and a hot air balloon to find that information, but there was a witness. There was a witness from Arizona and there was a witness in Santa Barbara if the police scanner Shawn had stolen from his father’s car was to be trusted.   
  
Only a few minutes later did he recall the same incident from his youth, when his father came back raging about the incompetence of his partner and the necessity of locking car doors.  
  
His memories were merging with the present and he still couldn’t remember what he’d been doing in the moments before he’d woken up here. He had a vague suspicion that it had involved being stabbed but that was a gimme considering the gaping knife wound in his stomach.  
  
But his every instinct screamed at him that this case now, this was connected somehow. This could get him back to everything he knew. Back to Gus and Psych, back to his dad, Juliet and Lassiter.   
  
He wanted to get back.  
  
He looked at his list of notes in his loose, scrawling handwriting. He wasn’t good at this he needed help.   
  
He needed Gus.  
  
Only Gus wasn’t here. So he did the next best thing and went to find Lassiter.  
  


***

  
  
Only one would be hit. Lassiter was sure of it. If this was the guy, only one of these three targets would be hit. The public library. The boardwalk. The courthouse. The locations were wildly different The MOs would require drastically different styles. With the resources on hand, it would be damn near impossible to cover them all at once.  
  
“One of these things is not like the other,” Gus said absently. “I wish Shawn were here. He’d have figured it out already.”  
  
“He’s not here.”  
  
“Yeah but—”  
  
“He’s not here Guster and he’s not going to be able to help us. So get your damn head on straight and think.”  
  
“This is pointless,” Gus said. “No one gives you this much time. He’s stalling. He’s got to be.”  
  
“Stalling for what?”  
  
Gus knew what he wanted to say. Stalling because of Shawn. Stalling because Shawn had done something to mess up his plans.  
  
“You should prepare yourself for the worst,” Lassiter said, his voice gentle. “The longer he’s gone, the less likely it is weren’t going to get him back.”  
  
“What do you care? You don’t even want him back.”  
  
Lassiter’s blue eyes were circled by dark smudges and Gus thought it was the first time he’d spoken of Shawn with anything but contempt. “Guster, I’d give my left arm to see Spencer walk through that door right now.”  
  
Both of their gazes swing toward the door mouth but Shawn did not appear.  
  


***

  
  
“Lassie!”  
  
When he found Lassiter, the man was furious. It looked good on him. Made him look older and if Shawn let himself drift he could imagine the real Lassiter, his Lassiter spun into a frenzy just the way he liked him. “You!” He hissed, turning on Shawn. “I’m not sure how, but this is all somehow your fault.”  
  
“Fault, Lassie?” Shawn echoed. “How could I have done something like that? I haven’t seen you in like three days.”  
  
“I got to my engineering class this morning only to find I’m not on the class roster because... somehow... I’ve managed to become enrolled in criminology.”  
  
Shawn cocked an eyebrow. “I refuse to see how this is a bad thing.”  
  
“In case you didn’t know, I am a electrical engineer. Who needs a lot of classes that are in his major.”  
  
“Electric engineering is not for you,” Shawn said, his fingers unconsciously creeping their way up to his temple. “I am sensing a different path.”  
  
“I’m sensing bullshit. How did you manage to change my class schedule.”  
  
Shawn held out the small gray student ID badge without even an ounce of shame. “Everything’s a hell of a lot easier if you can present some form of identification. Doesn’t even matter that it’s obviously the wrong guy.”  
  
“Great, just great, now I’m going to have to go take to a professor to see if I can get back on the roll for the  _right_ class.”  
  
“Who’s to say the right one’s not criminology?”  
  
“Who the hell are you and what is this obsession you have with me?”  
  
“I told you. My name is Shawn. I think you could be a hell of a detective.”  
  
“Really, because I’m calling the cops.”  
  
“I am a cop,” Shawn insisted brazenly. “Or did you forget? I’m working on a side project. Profiling. Someone passed your name onto me. Said you’d be good at it. I need your help.”  
  
“There are people trained in that.”  
  
“But I’m not asking them. I’m asking you.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Come again?”  
  
“Why are you asking me? Out of all the people at this university, why would you possibly pick me?”  
  
“Would you believe me if I said I was a psychic?”  
  
“Not even a little.”  
  
“Does it really matter why I’d pick you? Come on man, this is a chance to help people. Make a difference. You can’t tell me you don’t want that.”  
  
Lassiter fell silent for a long moment.  
  
“You in or you out?” Shawn demanded.   
  
Lassiter stared at him and he could see the exact moment he’d made the decision. The rounding of his shoulders, a tinge of unwilling excitement in his eyes.  
  
Shawn felt his breathing even out, the pain from the collapsed lung subsiding to a dull ache.   
  


***

  
  
The dates on the note cards came and passed without notice. The SPBD pulled in outside help, had all three sites fully manned but nothing happened. Nothing at all.  
  
Somehow, that made it worse. Gus found himself almost bouncing on his feet. Flitting between the police station, Mr. Spencer’s house and the hospital where Juliet O’Hara was still recovering. He hadn’t slept since the blood report came back. It was Shawn’s. Absolutely, unquestionably, Shawn Spencer had been the victim.  
  
There was no body. A week went past and there was no body. With only one exception, the bodies, the victims had all been found. Only Detective Shawn Savage twenty years ago had failed to be recovered.   
  
No body meant it was still possible that Shawn was alive.   
  
Gus walked into commotion at the Santa Barbara Police Department. Detective talking excitedly all around. He found Chief Vick and didn’t even need to say a word before she beckoned him back. “We may have a break on the three strike case. We have a witness.”  
  
“A witness?”   
  
“Lassiter’s in the interrogation room now.”  
  
There was a crowd watching the interrogation and not for the first time, Gus realized just how well liked his friend really was. He’d always had charm but Shawn had difficulties forming lasting friendships. He was easily stomached for short spurts but people got tired of him. People realized Shawn didn’t have an off switch. It was the reason he’d had only one friend in high school and the reason he’d made such a good impression on people in the years ping-ponging from job to job.   
  
This was different somehow. People where here because they were worried about Shawn. The were people who had known him for the past four years, still here, still his friend.  
  
He wished Shawn could see it.  
  
“Is he all right?” the witness asked. He was about fifty years old with graying salt and pepper hair and a pair of glasses. Despite the glasses and the pudgy midsection of middle age, Gus could tell he was an athlete in a his youth.  
  
“Spencer?” Lassiter said. “That’s need to know information.”  
  
“What’s he doing?” hissed one of the detectives. “You want to put him at ease. He’s a witness not a subject.”  
  
“It was why I came in.”  
  
“I thought you came in for the reward money?”  
  
“I saw a guy get stabbed outside his office while I was trying to take a piss in an alley.”  
  
“You know I could arrest you for that.”  
  
“Look, I didn’t have to come here. I want to make sure that guy’s all right.”  
  
They hadn’t released information about Shawn to the public. It had been the Chief’s idea, a way to push the killer into making a mistake.  
  
“We’ll let you know as soon as we do,” Lassiter said. “Now tell me, what did you see?”  
  
“The guy was dressed in black. Caught your guy Spencer coming out of the back of his office to take out his trash. Put the stuff in the dumpster and the guy jumped him. I didn’t realize what was happening until he spun around. Your guy made a grab at him, trying to hold on, but he’d been stabbed so it didn’t work out so well. He fell and the guy gave him a kick to the stomach and I realized I didn’t want to be the next one so I booked it out. Made my way back a few minutes later but the guy was gone so I didn’t worry about it.”  
  
“Do you remember anything about the man,” Lassiter asked though Gus could see by the tenseness in his shoulders that he wanted to pummel the man. Wanted to make him pay for leaving Shawn alone to die.  
  
“I don’t know. He was bigger then your friend. Dark hair. White. It was dark and I wasn’t exactly sober.”  
  
“And why did you wait until a week later to take this to the police?”  
  
“I couldn’t really do it before could I? The guy was gone, what was I supposed to do?”  
  


***

  
  
“The witness is the key, Lassie.”  
  
“You told me you were banned from the station, Savage. Something about recovering from a stab wound.”  
  
“Can’t kill a guy who’s already dead.”  
  
“Unless I’m very much mistake and you’re a vampire, I’m pretty sure it is something you and me both have to worry about.”  
  
“Totally knew you were a closet fan of sparkly vampires, Lassie.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
Shawn blinked, looking over to him, taking in the youthful face, the almost inky black hair and had to remind himself where he was. “Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“So why are you so sure this all rests on the witness?”  
  
Hunch. Gut feeling. The vague stirrings of memory. “Think about it Lassiter, this guy goes after cops. He’s bold and brazen and loves shoving it all our faces. This is the kind of guy who doesn’t just sit back and watch the show. He’s the kind of guy who wants a speaking roll.”  
  
Lassiter hesitated for just a second before grudgingly allowing, “That’s actually not half bad.”  
  
For a second he sounded so much like Shawn’s Lassiter that he swore he was back home.


	5. Chapter 5

“There was something off about that guy, Lassiter.”  
  
Lassiter pushed himself back on his desk grabbing another pair of files to put in his briefcase. He was at the end of a double shift, circles under his eyes that signified he’d barely slept since this thing started.   
  
Gus could relate.  
  
“The only thing off about him was the fact that he managed to see the whole damn thing without seeing anything useful at all.”  
  
“Shawn would...”  
  
Lassiter slammed his desk drawer shut. “We’ll Shawn’s not here now is he?”  
  
“I’ve got a feel about that guy,” Gus insisted.  
  
“What you’re psychic now too?”  
  
Gus bristled. “I know I wasn’t the only one who thought he was off. Seriously, what kind of guy in his forties get so drunk they need to go peeing in alleys?”  
  
“Fine,” Lassiter snapped. “The guy was a jackass and he gave me the creeps. I would have arrested him in a heartbeat if I thought I could make it stick. But I unfortunately have to play by the rules. Now I’m going to go visit Juliet. You come with me or you can do whatever you want.”  
  
He blew past Gus toward the exit, leaving Gus standing alone and silent before he realized, “Dude, he totally just gave me permission to go tail this guy on my own.”  
  
He might have been imagining it but he could have sworn he heard Shawn’s voice whisper, “You know that’s right.”   
  
But it could have just been an echo.  
  


***

  
  
In the end, Shawn managed to keep Lassiter on his side for approximately fourteen hours while they followed the man Shawn had tagged as the witness. Shawn was impressed. The only other one who could stomach Shawn for that long was Gus but even he had to get away after double digit hours. It had been one of the miniature ‘I would like to sleep before class’ freakouts but Shawn could see the Lassiter he knew fighting to push his way out.  
  
There was something wrong with the witness. He was a big guy who’d reportedly been in his car speeding past the site of a speed trap when he saw someone get out of a stopped car and deck a traffic cop.  
  
How do you see that at 65 mph? This guy was a speed demon, Shawn knew that in his bones and people like that don’t look at scenery.  
  
Which meant he was involved. Murderer, accomplice or something. Shawn just had to stay on his tail and wait for him to hang himself. There’d be something else. Shawn doubted he just wanted to injured a few cops. There was an endgame here and Shawn would see it if he stuck around long enough.   
  
A stake-out. Proper police work like his dad always wanted. Contrary to popular belief, Shawn never encountered problems with persistence. He had an obsessive nature about the things that he wanted.  
  
Quitting he reserved for things he didn’t like.  
  
He wanted to catch this guy. This guy was a cop killer and if his gut was right, this guy had something to do with the stab wound.  
  
For this guy, for Guy Pearsons (and Guy? Really?) he could be patient.  
  
Besides, in a few hours Lassiter would skip out of his class, half furious with himself for returning to a stake out. Shawn would tease him, but it would totally make his night.  
  
The more he concentrated on what was right in front about, the less he worried about how to get home.  
  


***

  
  
Either Juliet was taking the news of her injury far better than Lassiter ever could have or she was using the case to deflect. She demanded more files more papers every day and she seemed razor sharp despite the painkillers. They’d bound the arm in a sling, trapping up against her chest so it was completely immobile. She moved deftly through the files with her other hand, her off hand. She held a pencil in her mouth, taking it out every few minutes to make slowly, painfully detailed notes.  
  
“You don’t have to work so hard,” Lassiter said.  
  
Juliet glared at him, tugging the pencil out from between her teeth. “We’re talking about Shawn, Carlton. He’d do it for us.”  
  
Lassiter opened his mouth to protest but Juliet beat him to the punch. “You saw how hard he worked when you were under fire for murder and you saw him walk into a hostage situation to get Gus out, don’t you dare tell me he wouldn’t do the same for us.”  
  
He fell silent for a moment, staring before finding his voice again. “How’s the arm, O’Hara?”  
  
“I’ll let you know when I can feel something below the shoulder.”  
  
“That bad, huh?”  
  
Juliet finally put aside the files. “What do you think?”  
  
“I think you should probably be about twice as stoned on painkillers.”  
  
Silence, eyes widening in disbelief and then, laughter--the most welcome noise he’d heard since Spencer disappeared. The laughter sounded a little too harsh, a little ragged but it was Juliet, his partner, still there after everything she’d been through. “What do you remember about this case,” she asked when the laughter finally subsided. “I’m guessing it made a bit of a splash. You would have been what? Twenty at the time? You did college in Santa Barbara, right?”  
  
“I didn’t really pay much attention to stuff like that.”  
  
“You’re kidding right?”  
  
Lassiter regarded her seriously. “I entered college as an electrical engineer.”  
  
Juliet snorted. “I... wow. I can’t picture you like that at all. What changed your mind?”  
  
“A cop actually. Took an interest in me. Wound up enrolled in criminology.” He closed his eyes trying to picture his face but came up with nothing. “Spent some time in the hospital after getting mugged or something. It’s a little fuzzy, head wound and all but I came out and knew I had to be a cop.”  
  
“You never told me that story before.”  
  
“Never really told anyone. Didn’t seem important.”  
  
Juliet shook hear head fondly, turning back to the papers. “Here’s what’s bothering me about this case. I’ve got one anomaly. His name is Shawn Savage. He disappears from Arizona, shows up in Santa Barbara sporting a stab wound. Disappears again. A body turns up in Arizona about the same time as Savage but it’s too maimed to get a proper identification. Investigating officer in Arizona said it fit Savage’s description.”  
  
“But what about the guy in Santa Barbara?”  
  
She gave a one shouldered shrug. “Nothing in the files. It seems like he was on mandated medical leave right up until he dropped off the face of the earth But I had the chief send other arrest records from the time around the case. I figure maybe we get luck and we can link someone from the first time around to someone this time around. Maybe we even find out who was playing Shawn Savage.”  
  
“Not bad, O’Hara, I like the way you think.”  
  
“Not much more I can find out from these,” she put the original files in a stack on the bed stand and motioned for the next box. Lassiter obliged, opening it and handing her the first five files off the tops.  
  
Juliet moved quickly, already precise and efficient, even with her weaker hand, splaying the file out on her lap. She’d perfected a system. Arrest report on the left. Arresting officer’s notes in the middle, mug shot on the right.   
  
Her hands froze over the mug shot. “Carlton,” she stammered, looking more than a little shaken. “Is it just the drugs kicking in again or is that—”  
  
Lassiter looked at the mug shot, at the sharp angular features pinched in exasperation, a three day stubble dotting his chin. It was a face, however unwillingly, Lassiter knew as well as anyone’s. “Spencer,” he breathed.   
  
The name on the arrest report was Shawn Savage. Picked up for harassment of someone named Guy Pearsons. Resisted arrest.   
  
“I’m not seeing things then.” Juliet’s hand traced the yellowed files of the report, fingertips trembling. “This isn’t possible.”  
  
It should never have been found in the first place. It was something only Juliet with her single-minded intensity and compulsive attention to paperwork would have thought to check. But here it was. Impossible, yes, but sometimes it seemed like everything Spencer represented was impossible. “Who was the arresting officer?” Lassiter asked.  
  
Juliet’s fingers found the name. “Henry Spencer.”  
  


***

  
  
“Out of the car,”  
  
Shawn’s head jerked up off of the steering wheel and he wiped drool out off the side of his mouth. “What?” A flashlight shone in his face, shooting black spots streaking across his field of site.  
  
“Out of the car.”  
  
“What for?” Shawn pushed the door of the rental car open slowly, his eyes slowly adjusting to the glare.   
  
His dad, twenty years too young stood in front of him, wearing his police blues and a perpetual scowl. “Savage?” he spat.  
  
“Spencer,” Shawn corrected absently but his dad took it as an acknowledgement instead.   
  
“We had a complaint about a guy in a retail car follow him for the past twenty-four hours.”  
  
“Surveillance,” Shawn said.  
  
“A stake out? You were asleep?”  
  
“Nothing’s ever good enough,” Shawn mumbled.  
  
“Why are you staking out a civilian?”  
  
“Because I think he’s involved.”  
  
“And you didn’t go to the police?”  
  
Shawn snorted. “I’m pretty sure the police force would rather chase me out with pitchforks than actually listen to a word I have to say.”  
  
“You’re a detective.”  
  
“And I’m here doing my job.”  
  
Henry folded his arms across his chest. “It’s an unsanctioned stakeout, I’m afraid that Mr. Pearsons is not under investigation for any criminal matter so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”  
  
Shawn considered it for half a second. “No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
Shawn shook his head. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”  
  
The police scanner he’s stolen from his father’s care only a few nights before crackled from the front seat. Shawn winced. Henry’s eyes narrowed. “What is that?”  
  
“Police scanner?”  
  
Henry was approaching him now, the slow building anger he knew so well from childhood. He almost expected to see a finger wagging at him in disapproval. “Where did you get that police scanner?”  
  
“Police scanner shop on the boardwalk?”  
  
The handcuffs came out. Shawn dodged out of the way. “You can’t be seriously. This is like the mother of all deja vu.”  
  
“You have the right to remain silent.”  
  
“Bullshit, like I’ve ever been silent.”  
  
Henry made a move to cuff him, Shawn pushed his arms back, contemplating a punch. But Henry had taught him all of his tricks and in a second he was bent over the hood of his rented car with the sneaking suspicion that he was the only one in Santa Barbara history to be arrested twice by his own father.


	6. Chapter 6

The subject sat in the interrogation room, his eyes following Karen Vick’s movements, even behind the one way glass. He was impossible, disconcerting like he was comprised of a thousand mistakes, cobbled together to make a person.   
  
"He was staking out Guy Pearsons? Our witness to the cop attacks case?"  
  
"Stalking," Henry corrected. "He was stalking Guy Pearsons."  
  
"He’s not a cop," Vick said.  
  
Henry nodded. "He might have a gold star for deduction and know-how but he doesn’t move like a cop and he sure as hell doesn’t talk like one."  
  
"No he doesn't," Vick agreed. "I’ve been on the phone with Phoenix. Savage’s old station. They turned up a body a few days ago. Fingerprints and dental totally unusable but there’s a tattoo on the body that makes them think it’s Shawn Savage."  
  
"Wait, this guy’s been impersonating a cop? He showed up with a stab wound and Savage’s badge."  
  
"They didn’t catch the guy in Phoenix but odds are it’s the same guy they had. Three attacks on cops. One knocked out. One with his shoulder damaged to the point of uselessness and who just up and disappeared."  
  
"But they didn’t have one disappear. He showed up here."  
  
"As you’ve already pointed out, that man is not Shawn Savage."  
  
"I don’t like this."  
  
"I don’t think anyone does. And that’s not even the worst part. There was an attack in Phoenix about a week after the cop attack. A pipe bomb went off at a textile mill about twenty minutes before their closing time. Killed twelve people. They have reason to think it was the same person. He’d sent a threat with three different possibly targets a day beforehand."  
  
"Jesus, this guy doesn’t look like he has the brains to pull something like this off. My kid could probably beat him in a poker match."  
  
Inside the interrogation room, the Savage impostor drummed his fingers on the table, staring at Vick like he could hear every word.   
  
"I wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating him."  
  
Henry snorted. "He’s a cop killer, an arsonist and an impostor. I’m not underestimating anything. I just want to see this guy burn."  
  
"Nothing’s been prove," Vick said absently. "They don’t have an ID on the body in Phoenix but our operative theory says this is the best guess."  
  
"I’m going to go nail the guy," Henry said, moving toward the door.  
  
"Innocent until proven guilty," Vick muttered as she trailed him inside, unaware of why she thought it was so important.  
  


***

  
  
"Gus! You’re following too close. He’s going to see us."  
  
"Mr. Spencer, I don’t think--"  
  
"Left! Left! You’re going to lose him."  
  
Gus jerked the wheel sideways earning him a honk from the car behind him.  
  
Henry threw up his arms in frustration. "Oh, great, now you’re going to have to circle the block so he doesn’t pick you up as a tail."  
  
Pulling onto a side street, Gus turned off the car.  
  
"What are you doing, he’s getting away!"  
  
"I know where he lives, Mr. Spencer. Lassiter gave me the tip. And I know you were mister supercop but I’ve been doing this four years now and I’m not incompetent."  
  
There was a long pause before Henry finally said, "Gus, I haven’t seen this side of you before."  
  
"I’m worried about him too," Gus said. "But Shawn’s a lot tougher than he looks."  
  
The uncomfortable silence was broken by the standard tone of a cell phone. The two men stared at one another before Gus said, "Don’t look at me, my phone plays Jay-Z."  
  
Groping through his pockets, Henry pulled out his own phone. "Hate this damn thing, always gets me into trouble." He flipped it open. "Hello? Lassiter?"  
  
Gus leaned toward him, trying to hear the voice on the other end of the phone. "Did they find out anything about Shawn? Did they...?"  
  
Henry put a hand up to stop the questions. "Yes, that’s good news. Gus is with me. We’ll be back in the station."  
  
He hung up.  
  
"They’ve got a lead."  
  


***

  
  
There was a squeak in Savage’s voice as Henry stared him down. "You think I’m the guy? Me? Have you seen the stab wound." He started to pull his shirt up, as if showing them would help his cause.  
  
"Quite enough there, Mr. Savage. We’re well aware of your injuries. We’re just not sure of how you came to receive them."  
  
"Oh my God. You think I got a stab wound from one of the cops this guy attacked. Have you stopped to realize that none of these cops kept a knife as a standard police issue weapon."  
  
"But you could have used your own," Henry challenged.  
  
"Please, if they had seen me coming, they would have shot me in the face."  
  
"You’re not Shawn Savage," Vick said firmly. "That much we know beyond a shadow of a doubt."  
  
Savage faltered for the first time. Vick could see the lie on his lips as it formed. "No, no I’m not but I never claimed to be that guy."  
  
"You had his identification," Henry slammed his fist down on the table to the impostor’s flinch. "Impersonating a police office incase you didn’t realize, is a crime. And I’m having a hard time seeing any case where this doesn’t end with you being a criminal."  
  
"I’m not your guy."  
  
"What’s your name?" Vick cut in. "You start us off and we may be able to confirm an alibi..."  
  
She tried to ignore the nasty look coming from Henry.  
  
"The night of the attacks, I was getting stabbed," Savage protested. "I get that this is looking kind of bad for me but I can catch this guy, Karen. You’re just going to have to give me a chance."  
  
"Let’s get out of here," Henry told her, tugging her towards the door.   
  
She wanted to believe the guy. Henry must see it in her face. She didn’t want to but the not Savage was so fragile looking; pale from his exertion, breathing just a little too heavily for the amount of activity. Her gut told her he wasn’t a threat.  
  
Savage looked like a ghost. Someone who she could knock out of existence with just a touch.  
  


***

  
  
"This is your lead?" Gus snapped. "This. Really? An old case file?"  
  
"Juliet’s been combing through the old case files ever since she woke up," Lassiter said, leading them through the station. "She’s got us a lead."  
  
"It’s not that unusual," Henry chimed in. "I couldn’t tell you how many cases I’ve solved based on good paperwork. That’s something you and Shawn could take a lesson from."  
  
At the mention of Shawn’s name, the room quiets, the only sound remaining was the soft rustle of paper as Lassiter pushed a file toward Henry. "Actually, the paperwork is what we have a problem with. Your paperwork."  
  
"I worked the case with Karen almost twenty years ago. What of it?"  
  
"You had a suspect."  
  
"Yeah, brought him in for questioning and everything but it turned out it wasn’t the guy. The threats were called in while he was in custody."  
  
"Take a look at the picture of him."  
  
Henry turns open the file and his son smiles back at him.  
  


***

  
  
Henry had been in the interrogation room for hours when Vick pushed the door in. The suspect, the not-Savage had his face buried in his hand. "I’m telling you, it’s not me. I was in the hospital for God’s sakes. If you just let me out, I can catch him."  
  
"Henry," she called from the door.  
  
"What?" Henry demanded, slamming his fist on the table. "I’m in the middle of something here."  
  
"We just got a call, a threat."  
  
"Not my case. I’ve got a cop killer."  
  
"Henry, it’s from the cop killer guy. He had inside information. This man is not guilty."  
  
"But he knows something."  
  
"I was attacked," cut in Shawn.  
  
"He could be an accomplice."  
  
"Again, stab wound? Ringing any bells? The guy tried to gut me."  
  
"He’s innocent, Henry. Hell, we have no proof that he’s anything but who he says he is."  
  
"My name is Shawn," the suspect put in from his seat. "Swear to God it’s true. I might not be who you think I am but I can help you find him."  
  
"Like we're going to take a murder suspect at his word."  
  
"Jesus, did you not hear the lady say I'm innocent. I swear to God you actually seemed to have mellowed in your old age."  
  
"Are you calling me old?"  
  
The door squeaked and behind him one of the rookies was stammering an apology, holding out a police radio muttering about unauthorized use and how he should really listen to what was happening.   
  
Henry snatched the radio from the kid and suddenly it was saying, "Shawn, Shawn! There's something happening."  
  
"Lassie!" the suspect said, sitting up straighter.  
  
"I think he's got someone back there," the voice continued, an odd mix of fear and exhilaration coloring his voice   
  
Henry raised an eyebrow. The suspect in the chair arched toward the phone, panic etched into his features. He reached for the radio even though he hadn't even been uncuffed. He looked pathetic somehow. More like his son than a grown man. "Please," the kid said. "I can nail this guy. You just have to let me."  
  
"I'm going in," said the voice on the radio.  
  


***

  
  
"I remember this," Lassiter said, looking at the file.  
  
"Shawn Savage," Gus read. "But that's Shawn. Our Shawn."  
  
"He disappeared without a trace," Henry said. "Karen worked it with me. We were following up some lead on the radio and we found some kid unconscious who looked like he'd taken a beating but the guy who did it was long gone."  
  
"Did any of you, hear me?" Lassiter repeated. "I  _remember_  this. I tried to radio him because I was going to go after the guy."  
  
"But that's impossible."  
  
"Juliet didn't see it," Lassiter realized. "Which means it wasn't there a few hours ago. Which means whatever's happening with Spencer back then isn't done happening."  
  
"Which means," Gus prodded.  
  
Lassiter dropped the paperwork and compulsively checking his holster for his gun. "Which means there might still be something we can do to help."


	7. Chapter 7

There was a disconnect in Lassiter's mind. Something that felt like it had always been there but never been filled. He was a different person his first two years of college. He'd always thought his life had changed when he'd been mistakenly enrolled in a criminology class. Somewhere in that year he'd woken up in a hospital surrounded by cops, entire person burning with the need to  _do something about it._  
  
Things were missing. Great gaping holes he'd spend most of his adult life skirting.  
  
He was missing the memory of his biggest moments. It was only now that he even noticed. Only now he could see the jagged hole missing from Carlton Lassiter, their ragged edges fraying more and more each day.  
  
The gun was a comfort in his hands. Each step he took into this place sent a jolt of familiarity up his arms. The house was dark, abandoned--except it keeps blurring between what it was now and what it used to be. Lassiter himself felt like he was bouncing in between head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department and the scared sophomore engineering major. At least he had a gun this time. At least he had back up—even if he would have far preferred O'Hara to Guster. It didn't seem right that O'Hara was sitting in a hospital bed while the guy who did this to her remained at large.  
  
"Lassiter," Guster said from behind him. "Lassiter, what to you expect to find here?"  
  
Shawn. A murderer. Everything he didn't remember.  
  
"Follow my lead."  
  


***

  
  
Lassiter was terrified.   
  
He thought he should have a gun for this. Maybe even a badge—definitely should have a badge the next time he does this.   
  
The next time. He didn't make the mental connection immediately but there was a buzzing that spread through his whole body, a craving almost that let him know this will happen again.  
  
He was born for this. His blood thumped in this chest. He'd seen flickering lights in this room. Seen a hand banging on the window, looking desperately for help. It hadn't occurred to him to wait. He was lucky he even remembered to try and radio for Shawn.  
  
He nudged open the door. What he lacked in experience, made up for in volume. "Guy Pearsons," he said. "Put your hand on the ground."  
  
He sounded older than he expects somehow. Sounded like the man he'd always wanted to be. He was wearing an a Santa Barbara University t-shirt and an old pair of jeans, but he could almost feel something different, suspenders, a holster, a fitted suit.  
  
Pearson came for him sideways, a knife slashing sideways through his shit, the tip of the blade just kissing the skin. Lassiter jumped back instinctively, coming down funny on something on the floor. He hit the ground, back first, the wind knocked out of him. He groped blindly for a way to get back to his feet, for a weapon. His hand closed instead on something wet and stringy. He realized with a shock that it was hair. He turned over to see the unconscious face of the girl from the window. Above her nose, the face was almost unrecognizable as human. A massive blow had caved in the skull. She was still warm and leaking a steady stream of blood onto the floor. She had to be dead. Couldn't possibly survive that kind of damage--but her chest was still rising and falling in horrible little jerks.  
  
"You," Pearsons said. "You're not who I suspected."  
  
Lassiter twisted sideways as the kick comes, catching in his shoulder, rather than his head. He forced himself up onto his feet, his hands raised in a mockery of a boxer's stance. "You killed that girl."  
  
"I've killed a lot of people," Pearsons replied. He smiled and his face twisted, a rapid aging from a twenty-something kid to a middle-aged man and back again. "I've killed them now and I've killed them in the future and I'm going to keep doing it as long as I like, because there's no one out here who can stop me. No jail that can hold me."  
  
Lassiter swung his fist, missing Pearsons by a mile. Pearsons feigned left and when Lassiter dodged it, brought in a crushing blow with his right that left him flat on his back, seeing stars.  
  
"You see," Pearsons said. "There's maybe on person on this planet I'm worried about right now and you're going to do me a favor and bring him straight to me."  
  
"Shawn's coming," Lassiter threatened. "Shawn's coming and you're going to get the justice you deserve."  
  
Pearson smiled. "That's kind of the whole point of this exercise."  
  
Something swooped toward Lassiter's head, just out of his line of sight and he couldn't dodge it. He tried to keep his eyes open, fighting back the pain, horror and revulsion of this night, but it was a losing battle.  
  
The world faded to black.  
  


***

  
  
"Lassie?" Guster tried from somewhere behind him. "Lassie, you think you should maybe, you know, call for backup?"  
  
It was almost midnight. There was no sign of life in the house. If he had to guess, he'd say it had been abandoned years ago. That there might not have been a single person in this place since the cops cleared that last crime scene so many years ago. Lassiter still had the scar, right under the hairline, still bore the instinctual hatred of hospitals even though he hadn't know why for most of the past decade.  
  
"I already called for back-up," Lassiter said.  
  
"I was in the car with you this whole time, dude. You called Jules. That's it."  
  
"I called."  
  
He called Shawn. Years and years ago but he never showed. Son of a bitch was always late.  
  
"I know you didn't."  
  
"Shawn's coming."   
  
"You can't know that."  
  
But he did.  
  


***

  
  
"No," Henry Spencer said.  
  
"What?" Shawn sputtered. "There's a hostage situation. You can't just sit here while some kid goes off into danger and gets himself killed."  
  
"So tell me where he is," his father said reasonably.   
  
"Henry," cautioned Vick. "We can't hold him here."  
  
"We can arrest him on charges of identity fraud and you know it."  
  
"You're going to let someone die over this? Really?"  
  
"You are a suspect in a criminal investigations."  
  
"God damn it, dad," Shawn exploded. "For once in your life could you try and trust me? I'm a  _detective_."  
  
"What did you just call me?" Henry stepped toward him but Shawn wasn't watching him. He was looking Vick square in the eyes. The detective had a look on her face that he'd seen before. The look that said  _I just figured this out._  
  
God help him, but Shawn could kiss her.  
  
"Karen," his father said. "Karen, you can't be serious about this."  
  
"I need a minute with our suspect, Henry," she said.   
  
"Karen!"  
  
She gave him a look. The same look that could always stop Lassiter in his tracks and Henry Spencer leaves the police station. Vick sighed heavily and then sat down across from Shawn. "Look, I know who I think you are, but I don't want to say it aloud because it's completely crazy."  
  
"And if you don't say it out loud, it's not actually happening. Makes sense."  
  
"Figured you'd turn into a smart ass."  
  
"My ass is not the point, no matter how intelligent and sculpted it may be. The point is, I don't know why I'm here and how I got here. But I do know it looks like I have a chance to stop a killer and you've got to let me take it."  
  
"Herny's never going to let you out of here. He still thinks you're involved and if I had to guess, he thinks your friend's panicky call is some sort of sham to get you out of here."  
  
"It's not, I swear."  
  
"You're free to go," Vick said softly, reaching across the table to undo the cuffs. "But I'm going to need you to slip out while Henry's distracted. It's going to take me about ten minutes to get a car to you, so I need the location."  
  
"Guy Pearson's house."  
  
Vick slid her keys across to him. "Blue sedan. You scratch it and I make sure Henry makes your childhood miserable."  
  
"If it weren't completely inappropriate, I would kiss you right now." He scoops up the keys.  
  
"Give me about twenty seconds," Vick said.  
  
It took thirty. Shawn counted every one, wondering what it's cost Lassiter. When the two detectives were clear, he practically ran out of the station, picking out Vick's car with practiced ease.   
  
Guy Pearsons' house wasn't a far drive and he makes it at breakneck speeds, roaring down the streets that weren't quite the same as they used to be.  
  
He had no weapon. The stab wound in his gut sang loudly with each jerk of the steering wheel.  
  
But this was Lassiter. The gawky, awkward detective that he lived to tease, the guy who hated his guts but at the same time had laid out his life for him.  
  
Could Lassiter die here? Could history be rewritten? What would happen to Shawn? He knew he wouldn't be the same person. Knew he never would have continued with psychic detecting if it hadn't been so much fun to wind Lassiter up.  
  
He skidded into Pearsons' driveway and is through the doorway before he realized he didn't have a weapon or a plan.  
  
There was just enough time to register the scene. If he survived, there was no way he forgot this. Lassiter was unconscious but breathing, a nasty looking wound on his temple. The girl on the other side of the room wasn't as lucky, missing a good hunk of her skull. Elsewhere off in the corner, there was a distressing amount of fertilizer, the kind of thing you need for something like a homemade bomb. His last thought before the knife slots neatly into his back was that he's missing something.   
  
That Pearsons knew he was coming.  
  
White exploded at the edges of his vision as the knife is ripped back out, slicing through even more of his skin. It wasn't the quick in and out of the first time. It was a wound meant to kill not injure. "Shawn Spencer," Pearsons sneered. "Cause of so many of my problems. It's going to be nice to be rid of you."  
  
"There's back up on the way," Shawn said. It's true. He could almost hear the sirens over the ringing of his own ears. There was blood speckling out of his mouth every time he said a word.   
  
He wasn't going to last long. "You're not going to get away with this."  
  
"You'll find something odd about me." His face looked like it was melting as he talked, ageing like all those Nazis in  _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , but his body was fading too. Shawn was not going to pretend he understood it but a small piece of him shouted a warning. Time travel. It was time travel.  
  
With the last bit of energy he had, he lunged for the guy, latching onto his shoulder. There was an odd pulling sensation under the mask of pain. The sensation of flying and then, the even more disconcerting sensation of landing.  
  


***

  
  
It happened in the blink of an eye.   
  
First, an empty room and then suddenly, a pair of people emerged. Lassiter had his gun in his hands before Gus was even sure what happened. "Oh the ground!" he screamed.  
  
The guy, hell, their murder raises his hands slowly, a smirk forming on his features. The second man who'd seemed almost attached to the first toppled over like a rag doll. "Shawn!" Gus darted toward him as Lassiter started reciting the Miranda rights.   
  
The suspect put up no fight at all. He seemed ridiculously calm as Gus tried to hold the blood inside his best friend with one hand as he dialed with the other, rattling off he address to the dispatch.  
  
Lassiter was rough as he manhandled Pearson toward the wall. The only thing betraying his nerves was the complete inability to find his handcuffs. It was too dark for that. Lassiter kept his finger on the trigger as he said, "We're going to go outside so we can get some light. You're going to move slowly, no sudden movements."  
  
"There's nothing you can do to hold me," Pearsons said, walking step by step into the warm night air. "You can't hold me. I'm going to cooperate until the moment when it will look worst for you and then—"  
  
A shot rang out through the still night air.  
  
Gus bent instinctively over his friend. But it was Pearsons who was hit, Pearsons who toppled over in slow motion, a gaping hole in the center of his forehead.   
  
"Identify yourself," Lassiter roared in the direction of the shot. "Put down your weapon!"  
  
"Carlton," a voice said. "Carlton, it's me. You called me, remember?"  
  
Juliet O'Hara stepped slowly out of the darkness, her bad shoulder bound tightly in a sling. The other hand held a gun.  
  
  
  
  


SIX MONTHS LATER

  
  
It was the first time in his life he'd really felt self-conscious. His first day back. His first case back with a few new scars, a new perspective. He slid in quietly in the back, wanting to avoid the fanfare. He usually loved fanfare, loved people watching him, but in the past few months, he'd found it was different when you're viewed as a victim rather than a clown.   
  
The case was simple. One he solved in the quick glance at the file, brining his hand absently to his temple just like the old days. "I'm sensing you want to ease me back in chief," he told Vick after his summation. His back tensed just a little as he brings his hand back down, a twinge that would never quite leave him. "The spirits want me to inform you that you're being a silly goose."  
  
Vick raised an eyebrow and for just a second, she looked like the girl she used to be. But it was gone in an instant as he remembered where he was. "I'll have something else for you soon, Spencer," she said. "Promise."  
  
He didn't want to see Lassiter. Hadn't quite known what to make of Lassiter after this kind of ordeal. Didn't know if it was alright to tease him about being an engineer. Didn't know if he could tout the fact that he was the one to put him on the law enforcement track.  
  
Juliet found him sitting on the steps of the station. "Got to say, Shawn. I don't think I've ever seen one of your visits with less hoopla."  
  
Shawn smirked. "Let's pause for a moment to appreciate the fact that you just said hoopla."  
  
"Shawn—"  
  
"Jules," he cut her off. "I'm fine."  
  
"I know," she said. "I'm fine too."  
  
"You shot someone."  
  
"From what I understand, it's really the only way I could have stopped him for good."  
  
"But a teensy weensy part of it was revenge, right?" He pointed toward the sling she still wore, most of the arm still dead to the world.   
  
"You're not my psychiatrist."  
  
Shawn looked away from her, trying to keep his voice light. "I guess that means we're not going to talk about it."  
  
"You want to talk about it?" Juliet countered.  
  
Shawn leaned back on against, his hands, looking up at the sky. The sun was a warm beacon on his face. He was still alive. That mattered.   
  
He let a smile sneak across. "For one, I appear to have developed a really disturbing crush on Chief Vick."  
  
Juliet's laughter washed over him, the sound even better than the sunshine.


End file.
